


Once Shot Twice Shy

by Sushi_Leigh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, I'll add more later if needed, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock returns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sushi_Leigh/pseuds/Sushi_Leigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to 221B after being gone for three years. What he finds once he gets there is not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Shot Twice Shy

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for choosing to read my story! I would love any feedback you're willing to give, for I am looking forward to bettering my writing. I am more than likely going to continue and make this have multiple chapters but I wanted to get a little feedback first. Thanks again!

Sherlock finally returns to 221B after his three year hiatus. Although he doesn't show it, he’s extremely relieved to be home and can’t wait to see how life has been treating his dear friend. After having dealt with only Moriarty’s remaining men for so long, he’s excited to see the familiar faces of the people he once took for granted. Deep in thought he begins chewing slightly on his bottom lip. He hates to admit it, but these past few years have been hell without John beside him. Deciding enough time has been wasted he sprints up the front steps and throws open the front door in his usual dramatic display. He knows that John and Mrs. Hudson would come running when they registered the bang. Instead he’s met with a deafening silence. He listens closely for any movement within the apartment.

He can hear Mrs. Hudson shuffling in the kitchen humming along to the radio, no doubt in his mind that she couldn't hear him over it, but no noise is being made upstairs. A small seed of dread settled in Sherlock’s stomach. With a set face he started for the stairs refusing to give into the useless worrying thoughts. John was probably reading or taking a midday nap, his usual habits after a long day at the surgery. He knew the doctor wasn't there now for that was the first place he had checked. Scowling, Sherlock glances around quickly making sure everything was still in place.  Not seeing anything of importance, he runs up the stairs pushing open the door only to stop dead in his tracks.

His instincts screamed at him that something was wrong, something’s off. Taking a deep breathe he steeples his hands and analyzes the inside of the apartment. He quickly rakes his eyes across the place and takes into account all that has changed. Immediately several problems popped up in his mind. The first alarming fact is that the place no longer looks lived in. By the lack of cleaning and the indentions in the furniture, no one had been here for nearly two weeks. A noticeable layer of dust had settled on the flat surfaces throughout the living room. Pushing down the panic Sherlock scoured through the apartment searching his room, John’s room, the kitchen, and anywhere else the doctor could possibly be.

With each room he searched the worse his dread became, for every room showed worrisome signs. John’s bed looked hardly slept in, everything in the room looked untouched as if no one had entered the room in years. Unlike John’s, his room looked a little more lived in as if care had been taken to make sure it was never lonely. Although it looks to not have been touched in a while it was still better than the state of John’s. Glancing at his bed his eyes widen from the connection made. John had been sleeping in his room. More than likely clutching to all that he had left of the detective. Now that Sherlock had put that together he noticed certain personal items of his set out. Almost as if the person had been afraid of their past being a dream. Bottles of different painkillers littered the top of his nightstand, so the doctors limp had returned. Almost hidden amongst the different medicines and discarded newspapers lay John’s favorite gun. 

Looking at it closely Sherlock could see the obvious care taken to clean it regularly, almost religiously so, certain places on the grip had become slightly worn down, most likely from the constant action of picking it up and setting it back down. One bullet rests by itself in the chamber helping Sherlock come to the chilling conclusion of why exactly the gun was there. Why else would you leave a gun, loaded with one bullet, on the bedside table among your many pain medications, in your best friend’s room who you think committed suicide. John had been afraid that Sherlock was a lie, and by the state of the room he held on with everything he had to the idea of Sherlock being a hero, his real friend and detective.

A dull ache settled in Sherlock’s chest to accompany the dread still building in his stomach. Even after his deductions he still found no clue of where John could possibly be. That thought alone didn’t settle well with Sherlock. Turning sharply, his waistcoat billowing behind him, he hurries his way downstairs calling for Mrs. Hudson silently hoping at least she knows where his beloved doctor could be.


End file.
